Sorry for the delay-my hard drive met an unfortunate early death. Luckily, the tech team was able to recover my files.
[July 11, 2009]
Gwen is waiting for him in her nightdress when he comes home. The light from the hallway frames her, backlighting her and masking her expression; it silhouettes her curves and accents the rigidity in her stance.
One glance, and he just knows. At least he has warning this time.
"I get the feeling I should pour a drink for this," he says quietly, stopping just inside the front door.
She doesn't reply. All he's given in reply is the tight set of her brows that he can barely make out in the darkness and the way her grip on the table where they set their keys is unnaturally tight. All of that could be overcome, but it's not likely that he can avoid the tell so inherent in the slight elevation of her chin—in the near haughty way she looks down her nose at him when he turns on her light—in the way she just stares.
"Something to say, darling?"
Carelessly, he throws his keys into the bowl on the table, concentrating instead of watching them land inside the fine ceramic, rather than seeing his wife look at him the way she always looked at someone she was about to sentence. Once, he'd thought she'd only appeared this way when she was meting out justice.
Might be that's the truth. Who's to say he doesn't deserve this?
"How could you do that to her?"
She never sounded quite so cold when she was leaving him the first time around—not that she'll leave him tonight. No. Gwen—she is good, and she'll want to fix this, give him a chance. But she'll end up leaving all the same. The damn inevitability of it might be funny if it weren't just so pathetic.
He doesn't laugh when he leaves the hallways and flicks on the lights to the kitchen.
"I don't know, Gwen," he admits tiredly—and he's truly not proud of the sarcasm in his voice. "How could she plan to announce that, according to blood and birth order, she's first in line for any position given out due to relation to Uther?" He doesn't bother to rage at the look of shock on Gwen's face—he's done plenty of that in private already. "What, you think I didn't know that's what she was planning? You think I announced Mordred is my son because I wanted to turn his life—and Morgana's—upside down? Because I wanted to see them hurt?"
Slowly, Gwen shakes her head, slipping just inside the perimeter of the room. The hem of her nightdress flutters appealingly at her ankles, floating all white and gauzy against her coffee skin. She's beautiful. She'll always be beautiful. And he will fall for it. Every. Single. Time.
It's why it still cuts when her brow scrunches and she looks at him with such pure distaste.
"Now, if she announces who her father is biologically, she'll be admitting to incest."
She has her arms crossed defensively over her chest, delicate nails pressing half moons into the fleshy part of her arms. He can't see why. She knows he would never harm her. Not a thousand years ago. Not now. To hell with it all—he's just as pathetic now as he was back then.
And still so in love.
What was he thinking?
No apologies are needed for how he pulls out a bottle of whisky. He's apparently shit at thinking while completely sober—why should it matter if he's a little drunk? He married her the first time, married her again the second time, and why did he think this would work?
The first gulp burns going down. It's not the fire of absolution, but it's the best he'll get.
"You've pushed her into a situation she can't possibly win."
"Yes. But I didn't want to."
Seems he's hit a sore spot: Gwen jolts forward, grabbing the bottle from his hands and slamming it down on the table. A bit of it spills over onto the varnished surface—a waste of good alcohol.
"How dare you?" she snarls, pushing forward, closing the inches between them. He can see all too well the glossiness of her eyes this close—unshed tears—and, just as much, the cold, solid brown of her irises. Like frozen ground in the winter. "You have taken England. You have dragged in every user of magic and tagged them like animals!" Every word is coming out with more power—more venom, but he doesn't back up, certainly doesn't yield. "You have made those like Morgana hunted. And then you proposed to hunt her—and your own son—just the same."
By the time she's done, she's heaving for breath, staring up at him with all her features pulled into the middle of her face, contorted fully with fury. And if she holds that glass any tighter, it's going to crack.
It's true. All of it. But not as she makes it sound. "In today's society, they have the capacity to be dangerous. It's only a failsafe."
Gwen's lips jerk to the side, grinding her jaw into her cheek. "A way to deprive them of who they are should you deem it necessary. You. And only you."
"I don't intend to abuse it."
"Morgana isn't dangerous! None of these people are dangerous!"
If only she knew. There are no two people more dangerous than Morgana and Mordred. This time around, circumstances may not deteriorate into what they were, and God knows, he'd love nothing more. But… There is always a "but." He loves his son, loves his sister—has always loved Morgana. This is no vendetta. But….
"Do you simply forget people like Nimueh? Gwen, I don't hate people with magic. Some of them I love very dearly. But look at what they have the capacity to do. An entire country's government—wiped out. How can that remain unchecked?"
"Arthur, you can't fight injustice with injustice! And what you've done to Morgana—it's deplorable."
Of course it is. Because nothing he has ever done has been good enough for Gwen. She's going to find a reason to leave him in every single life, simply because that is fate. Some lark about destiny or another such topic. Beautiful, beautiful Gwen, and he will lose her always.
His insides ache. Pitiful. And he'll have a drink now, please.
Sinking down into a chair bonelessly enough that it creaks does not seem to be the response Gwen wants. Even if it were, reaching out and grabbing the drink away from her effectively smashes any sort of tenuous connection they were still capable of holding throughout this conversation. Doesn't matter so much, though—smooth glass under his fingers is more satisfying than clinging to the threads of an already fraying connection.
"How dare you," she snarls, tossing her hands up, slicing at the air—but, no, it's much more effective when she shoves them into her hair, pulling at the strands and scrunching her eyes closed so tightly that he could almost swear someone has taken away her eyeballs altogether. "How dare you care so little about this? About all of us? What you have done—"
What he has done. Loved a woman who will always leave him? Built a kingdom with his own blood and toil? Kept his people safe at the expense of his own happiness? Fought against a sister he loved dearly but who would see him dead? Watched his own kingdom fall? Oh, yes, the things he has done—how does he dare to shame the world by getting out of bed in the morning?
Gwen flings her arms back down to her sides. "You are a tyrant!"
Funny how in medieval times he was simply called a king.
No longer. It's brutal, how the good things seem to pass, but destiny manages to circle back around with those things he'd like to change. The pulse of inevitability is grinding into his skull, and though he pinches the bridge of his nose, trying to snuff out the ache, all he can see is Gwen's face as she left Camelot for the last time.
"And what would you have me do then, Guinevere?"
"I'd have you not betray your own sister! I'd have you find a way to work with the magic users, rather than conquering them."
Yes, well, if Merlin would just let himself be found, that's something that will receive immediate attention. God knows Merlin has always been vital to his politicking with the magical community. With Merlin's help and support, a deal might not be so out of the question. Certain standards will have to be upheld, unfortunately—there is a terribly great capacity for the misuse of magic in this time period—but they could, at the very least, talk.
"Has it occurred to you that Morgana betrayed me?"
Seems not: Gwen's lips twist violently, and she opens her mouth once, then again, though each time nothing comes out, and she's left contorting her mouth around words she can't seem to find.
And then she simply stops trying.
It's not as though he didn't expect it. At some point, Gwen always stops trying for him. This was always inevitable—which seems to be the theme of the night, doesn't it? Obviously, he was foolish to think he could change this—could write them a new future.
He knocks back the drink in his hand; she gurgles out a sound of disgust.
There's no need for him to look up to know that she's gone. The smell of her, and the memory-sight of her white nightgown, whipping with her motion—both linger, but that's all, and he can see that—smell it—just as easily in his mind as in reality. This time, there is no sorry, no Lancelot, but there is something—just an empty room this time—because there is always something.
And who's to say Lancelot won't soon be along to collect what is obviously and always his?
Slowly, Arthur takes a deep breath. And then he hurls his drink at the wall, watching as it shatters, raining particles of glass all across the room.
His own destruction was never that beautiful.
Figures, though, doesn't it?
[November 20th, 2007]
"I'm pregnant."
If the situation were different, she might mock Arthur for how he stiffens like an unfortunate piece of road kill in the beginning stages of rigor mortis. Probably best she doesn't try, though: he eases back up too quickly for her to make any sport of it, and by the time she's pushed down the impulse, he's already shaking his head, sending light reflecting off his annoyingly perfect hair. Why in the world did she tell him to meet her in the park of all the places? The bastard always looks the best in the sun, and God knows she doesn't need a reminder of the kind of thoughts that got her into this mess.
"That's not funny, Morgana."
"No. It's not."
Pinpointing the moment that he realizes how serious she is doesn't prove exactly difficult: that stupid I'd don't believe you half-smile slips off his face, fading into blankness—expect for his eyes. Oh, Arthur dear, are you trying to be shrewd? Don't strain yourself. It's not your talent.
When he goes a ghastly pale, she knows he's got it.
"You can't—don't—what?"
God help them all. Her child, if it takes after its father, is going to be an imbecile. Perhaps she should start going to church more: surely it isn't remiss to put in a request in hopes that her baby will never, ever be capable of sporting such a gobsmacked, hopelessly thoughtless expression. It isn't as though she physically hit him with the words—he has no good reason to look as though she's beaten the brains right out of him.
"I'm pregnant, you're the father, and I'm keeping it."
A couple of blinks later, he apparently realizes just what she's saying. Part of it, anyway. "I wasn't saying you should get rid—"
Crossing her arms, she snorts softly. "I'm not asking your opinion. Please, don't feel compelled to offer it." If only she were truly as confident as her tone sounds: she can string together a good run of strong, assertive words, and there's a good chance she can fool Arthur into believing her projection, but the shaking in her limbs gives her away, at least to herself. Keep those arms crossed, then.
Sheer shock is giving way to shaken determination: Arthur pinches his lips in—fish have pulled that off with more grace—and then relaxes them, running his tongue over the lower lip. Twice, he opens his mouth and closes it again, mostly likely searching for the words neither of them can find to say.
Hell, if she knew what to say in this situation, she never would have told him about this at all. If she had all the answers, if she could have fixed this herself—
Grinding her nails down into her arm feels good. The pain is grounding. It's about the only thing that is, merely because she can't fix this for herself. And Arthur can't fix it for her.
Which is something he very clearly knows.
"What do you need from me?" he says at last, following up the words with a rushed puff of air trailing along with the last syllables.
If she keeps pushing much harder, she'll draw blood on her arms. It's not such an unappealing prospect. "I need you to never, ever acknowledge that the baby is yours."
"But—"
"Nothing. But nothing. If my mother and Uther left us indication of our blood relation, it's impossible to tell who else might have knowledge of it. But this—no one, with the exception of the two of us—and Gwen suspects—knows who this baby's father is. Keeping the paternity a secret is the only way to ensure that no one can possibly know that we—we're…."
Arthur looks away. Seems he doesn't want her to finish that sentence any more than she wants to finish it.
No one likes to hear that silence is the only way to insure that their incestuous sexual escapade and subsequent pregnancy don't come to light.
White spreads up and over his lip when he bites down, though it flushes red a moment later when he loosens his jaw. "All right. I—all right."
"Swear."
His hands are shaking. She can't see it, but he's shoving them down deep into his pockets in the same way she's driving her fingernails into her own flesh—just to keep steady. "If anyone found out," he murmurs, "this child's life would be terrible. Of course I'll keep silent. I swear to that."
That is, of course, the best she could hope for. "Good," she replies, nodding. Letting go of her arms is bit of a challenge: her fingers scream at the sudden release of tension. Who knew letting go would be just as painful as holding on? "I'll take care of everything else. Just—don't… let anyone know that you have any reason to care."
"Beyond that of a friend?"
"We aren't friends."
He shifts uncomfortably, though the set in his jaw indicates that this is one issue that he will not completely concede. "My father has taken you in. By all appearances, we are living as adopted siblings. Don't I have a right to act the part of concerned brother?"
"A brother isn't a friend."
"It could be."
There's power in his gaze: in how he holds her stare and waits her out. All the time he does, he hardly blinks, pinning her down with the sharp blue in his eyes. He won't let this go. That's clear. And, really, should he have to? She can't—can't—it's possible that she can't deny him some connection with the child. Can't. Shouldn't. Everything feels a bit like semantics at the moment, and it is truly only the guilty churning in her stomach that provides any obvious answers.
"All right."
Arthur just nods. "We'll make do, then."
[October 17, 2013]
Every precaution had been taken. She'd been ruthless in her scrutiny—she absolutely had. And this—this is how it pays off?
Clutching the wound on her side, Morgana tips against a wall, gasping for breath and barely managing to stay upright. Even the air is icy; the only source of warmth is the blood leaking out between her fingers. That might be fortuitous: at least her hands will be warm should she need the dexterity… probably for something like pulling a trigger.
Because if she sees Arthur right now? She will shoot him. She will shoot him over and over and over, long after he's dead, and then she will watch the blood seep from his lifeless body. Even then, it still might not be enough. Maybe she won't even bury him. That would mean letting him out of her sight, and, if she's not looking, who's to say he won't come back?
Over her head, the lights flicker. She glances up; they won't last long. She may have a back up power source to this bunker, but Arthur has no shortage of resources, and now that he's found this place, it's a matter of time before his lackeys manage to discover a way to cut the power entirely.
But still she wavers.
Nothing in her screams for escape. Once, it might have. But then she held her child for the first time, saw him blink his eyes open, and she knew, with absolute, terrifying certainty, that it would never be run again—not where Mordred was involved.
Gritting her teeth, she shoves off the wall. The move overbalances her, and she pitches forward into the other wall, barely managing to catch herself. Unfortunately, that requires both hands, and the right—the one she'd had against her wound—resounds against the plaster of the wall with a wet slap. A bloody handprint. Damn it all to hell. She might as well leave Arthur a note telling him she came this way.
Nothing for it now. She's got to keep moving, got to keep the screaming in her head to a minimum. If she succumbs to it—to the mad panic that demands she turn and run back for her child—she'll lose everything.
Mordred.
Go. She has to go. And she does. Stumbling down the corridor, half throwing herself up the stairs that she eventually reaches, falling, kneeling on her hands and knees as she climbs, only sometimes managing to grip the rail and get herself upright. And always, always fighting the desire to simply pitch herself back down and let them find her, let them bring her to her son.
No. If she goes back for Mordred, she will see him, yes, but she'll lose him any chance at freedom. She'll lose that for both of them.
She'll get him back. But not like this.
Her heart doesn't understand the distinction.
Bright light breaks against her face as she reaches the top of the stairs and throws the door open with a last pitch of her weight: she gives herself over to the momentum of the door, following it until her body stretches too far and she's dumped onto the concrete step. A back alley.
"Gwen," she mutters, clutching at her side as she watches her blood pool on the ground. Gwen said she'd be here. And so she will.
It could be seconds. It could be minutes. But Gwen does come. At first, she's indistinguishable from an enemy: merely a blur of hands, hauling Morgana up off the ground. Her voice, though—Morgana could never mistake that voice, could never misunderstand the soothing lilt of it. There's no mistaking Gwen, or how she levels Morgana up, gets her arm over her shoulder and pulls her down the alley—how does she even manage it when Morgana knows she's nearly dead weight—to the car waiting at the end of it.
"I'll kill him, Gwen," Morgana slurs. It's a bit difficult—she's got a string of hair in her mouth, definitely in her eyes, and her vision is fading fast, but she's got to at least hear it said. Someone needs to know.
Gwen props her against the side of the car and rips the door open. "I wouldn't blame you a bit if you did."
"My baby—my baby—"
Her weight is too much for Gwen to lever down, and so she more or less falls into the passenger's seat. She can feel herself slump sideways, sprawling over the gearshift and nearly into the driver's seat. Doesn't matter, though, as long as Gwen can still drive.
The door slams. Silence. One, two, three—Gwen's door clicks and then slams open, shut, leaving Gwen beside her again. She's careful about how she peels Morgana back off the gearshift and pushes her to her own side. A mother's touch, simple as that. It's a cruel twist of fate that Gwen can't have children. If anyone ought to be able to, Gwen should. She'd never let her child fall into the hands of someone like Arthur Pendragon.
Oh, hell. Maybe she would. Of course she would. She married the bastard. It'd probably be his kid.
"We'll get Mordred back," Gwen tells her, starting the car and almost immediately throwing it into reverse. Her eyes aren't on Morgana, but they don't need to be. Morgana can hear the sincerity in her voice—seeing it in her face would only be repetitive. "We'll find a way."
Unbidden, the edges of her vision pinch in, going an alarming shade of gray. She forcibly pushes it away. "How'd he find a way in?" she manages to choke out.
Gwen backs the car out of the alley and onto the main road. Somewhere behind them, a horn blares. She probably cut someone off. Good. Welcome to London.
"I don't know," Gwen admits, jamming her foot down on the gas pedal. Not too much, though—speeding would gain them unwanted attention. The best way to hide is to blend in… and to dump the car five or so blocks from here and trade off for another ride. New clothes. Wigs. Makeup. "Someone must have told him."
"Who?" She'd screened everyone so carefully.
"I don't know."
Whatever. She'll shoot them too—along with Arthur—when she finds out. For now, though—for now, she'll grit this out until they switch cars. She'll make sure she's clear of her bastard of a half brother. She'll find a doctor.
And then she'll find a way to smear everything red with the blood of Mordred's father.
Arthur will understand. And she'll make damn sure he'll wish he didn't.